


In Caverns All Alone

by marit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mind Reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marit/pseuds/marit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can read minds. Now he has to tell Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Caverns All Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I took the title from the poem Mind by Richard Wilbur, which popped up when I was Googling stuff for this story. (Mind in its purest play is like some bat / That beats about in caverns all alone, / Contriving by a kind of senseless wit / Not to conclude against a wall of stone.)
> 
> I feel the need to warn against possible disappointment: Do not continue reading if you want something heavily mind-reading based. This is not it. John isn't going to be using his powers for good or bad or anything. Perhaps in the future, if there seems to be interest. This particular fic is more about that second line in the summary.

It’s dangerous, really, to feel this relaxed, but John can’t muster the energy to care much.

Sherlock is pushed against his side and nearly sprawled half over him. It’s very early in the morning and still dark. Sherlock is quiet and calm, tracing idle patterns over scars and the other marks that grace John’s skin with their presence. He will fall asleep soon, John can tell.

It’s nice. They’ve just come off a case. They had really great sex. They are both sated and soft, and the only emotion Sherlock radiates is contentedness tinged with sleep. John knows that his mind is probably cataloguing every sensation and observation, but to Sherlock, the cataloguing is second nature and so it is very simple for John to not even notice it happening unless he cares to. Right now, he doesn’t.

It’s so far from simple, how they got there, that John is loath to break the peace. But he will break it. In a few hours, once Sherlock has slept a bit, John is potentially going to lose his trust forever.

Today, John has it all planned. He is going to tell Sherlock everything.

 

 

The moment John walked into that lab, he was struck by how organized Sherlock’s mind was (and is).

Brains don’t normally function in obviously organized ways. There are, obviously, particular organization schemes that are generally used across all people. If there weren’t, it would be exceedingly difficult to function. However, reactions are more often than not simple flashes of emotion, sometimes a word or an association or an event imperfectly remembered. There are gaps in the memories. Thoughts are not perfectly formed English sentences but instead a jumble of things coming together. Some people think more in words or pictures, some with more vibrancy of colour. Some think in multiple languages or primarily in one emotion. Beyond immediate reactions to events, John has to concentrate to make sense of people’s minds. It’s difficult unless they are staying relatively still and cooperative. There’s a range issue, and he has to filter current thoughts out from past ones.

A person’s whole history is written there, in their neurons and their connections. If John works hard enough, if he’s willing to give himself a massive headache, if he thinks it’s worth it or when he just wanted an excuse to stay home from school, he can make sense of those connections. He can find out what a person really thought of their now deceased aunt, or what the name of their first pet was. If it’s a thought a person has stored, a memory that has stuck around, a movie that made an impact, John can figure it out. If he wants. He rarely does want, though.

Usually, he ignores everything except those immediate emotional reactions that are difficult to ignore. He’s gotten used to them, though, and to hiding that he knows about the undercurrent of shame that gives away a lie or the fear that underlies an otherwise confident statement.

So when he met Sherlock, it was like meeting calm for the first time in his life. It’s not that Sherlock doesn’t possess emotions--he does, and, as John learns, he possesses many of them strongly. But compared to, say, Mike, who radiated amusement as Sherlock rattled off facts about John’s life, his emotions are under control. His facts are only belied by a very quiet hum of confidence, not by a shout of any harsh emotion. Sometimes, a bit of curiosity or cynicism or whatever else sneaks in, but it is all muffled, like it’s been buried under logic.

John doesn’t doubt, either, that if he wished to, he could simply wander through Sherlock’s mind and find it all organized and compartmentalized. He’s seen Sherlock in the act of said organization. It’s not that there aren’t the wild, overarching associations that everyone makes, thoughts and signifiers jumping from one to the next so quickly that sometimes they barely register in John’s short term memory before the next bit comes in to push them away. No, there’s plenty of those still. But when Sherlock isn’t deducing something, and when John simply isn’t closely attending to Sherlock’s thoughts, everything is in its place. It just makes sense. John doesn’t think he could ever explain it to anyone, but it simply does.

John knew almost instantaneously that Mike has somehow set the way for the perfect partnership. Even if it wasn’t apparent to Sherlock, John’s was determined from the beginning to make it work. He yearned to live with someone whose emotions and thoughts wouldn’t knock and grate against John’s own. Not only that, but Sherlock was brilliant. It was nearly too much to believe that someone who could perhaps help, who could be a break from the rest of humanity, even just the tiniest bit, was standing right in front of him.

 

 

The first time John let something slip, it was after a long case and an even longer week of battling with Harry over the anniversary of their mother’s death. John’s whole body felt tired and ready to collapse. His mind was simultaneously sluggish and overwhelmed. He didn’t realize until he had answered Sherlock’s question that Sherlock hadn’t actually said his question out loud yet.

“How’s Harry? ” Sherlock asked, except that he didn’t. And John, before he caught himself, had a whole section of Sherlock’s thoughts filter into his own mind.

Sherlock, it seems, had been trying to decide how to phrase his inquiry. “How’s Harry?” ( _Too casual? Showing a familiarity with John’s sister that didn’t exist?_ ) was lined up against “How is your sister?” ( _Is the appropriate amount of concern contained within those words? Tone--tone would matter._ ) and “Have you spoken to your sister today?” ( _Too subtle? A yes/no question might not encourage John to open up to alleviate some of his stress._ ) and other half-formed versions and associated doubts that Sherlock didn’t get to think about much before John answered an unspoken question.

“She’s better, yeah,” John said, collapsing into his chair.

Sherlock looked at him oddly. His thought process disappeared as John concentrated on his own mind, his own thoughts that whirled backwards to review the last few moments to try to figure out what he had done. Sherlock’s confusion was completely blocked out for a few moments that would have been blissful if John hadn’t been nearly panicking when he finally realized that he had answered a thought. He was tempted to delve into Sherlock’s mind to find out how he really felt beyond confusion, but he resisted the urge. He always resisted the urge. He had to have some rules, and not purposely reading the minds of friends or family was one of them.

After what was only a brief moment, but felt like much longer, John waved a hand in what he hoped passed as a casual manner. “You’ve got that look you get when you feel obligated to ask me about my life. You don’t need to pretend you’re interested.”

Sherlock’s expression did something that John couldn’t identify and refused to try to. He was tense, now, and not even an emotion from someone else would get through his current (but temporary by necessity, due to the effort) barriers. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again, which was odd. He rarely didn’t respond if he had something to say.

They both looked at one another for a moment longer, and then Sherlock picked up his glass of water and left for his bedroom. John was left staring at an empty room.

He had started to feel too comfortable around Sherlock, he decided. He would always slip up sometimes, he knew, but he made an effort to pull away, to be less comfortable. He wasn’t allowed that. He had to be alone. He knew that. He wouldn’t go as far as moving out because living with Sherlock was the closest he ever got to a quiet mind, though. He would just pull back a bit.

He was more careful, after that.

 

 

Sherlock’s laughter is breath against John’s neck when John flips them so he’s on top. John is suddenly overwhelmed by happiness and he can’t tell how much of it is his own and how much of it is Sherlock’s. It stops him in his tracks, his mouth left somewhat oddly against Sherlock’s hair.

He wants to cry. It’s skin on skin and emotions piled on emotions. It’s a situation of his own making. It’s wonderful and horrible and exhausting. This is too much, and he can only ruin it. Today was his plan, now that Sherlock’s awake and gloriously happy and John’s not sure if he can do it.

And then Sherlock’s hands slide up John’s back, one into his hair and the other cradling the line of his jaw. He pulls John’s face down into a kiss, and it focuses John again on the moment.

 

 

John doesn’t like to think about the times in his life that would have turned out much better if he had let himself read someone’s mind.

The list isn’t long, really. He knows it would be beneficial in minor things like exams and so on, but he wants to get by on his own intelligence and hard work, not the fact that he can simply pluck an answer from someone else’s mind. No, the list is made of much bigger things. His mother and a bottle of pills. Moriarty and his plan to tear apart Sherlock’s life. Sherlock and a distraction, a rooftop. Mary and lies.

It is possible to lie to him. He can be caught off-guard and uncertain, blind-sided by both strangers and people he cares about. It’s just difficult, and when it happens, it hurts all the worse because he feels like he should have spotted it.

So he doesn’t think about it. All those things are past, anyway. Sherlock’s even back to being alive. That’s all that really matters now.

 

 

He tried once, at Kitty Riley’s flat, to delve into Moriarty’s mind to try to fix it all, but Sherlock was radiating a combination of terror and admiration that made it too hard for John to concentrate.

 

 

John ensures Sherlock eats. He encourages him to get into actual clothes because John knows that when he says what he’s going to say (because he’s going to say it, even though he keeps putting it off and it’s now the evening), Sherlock will feel better if he’s properly dressed. Then, if he wants to leave when he finds out about John, he can do it more easily. John also gets dressed. He wears comfortable but sturdy clothing in case Sherlock wants him to leave. He’s even checked that Harry’s home tonight, just in case he needs somewhere to stay.

He feeds Sherlock a second time, just in case.

Finally, he does not know if he can put it off longer.

He puts the kettle on. He watches the water boil.

John places two cups of tea on the kitchen table. He thought hard about where the best spot for this would be. He decided on the kitchen because it is not as comfortable as other spots. It is more impersonal. It is closer to the door for if (when) someone has to leave.

Sherlock is typing something up on his computer after working all day on some experiment in the kitchen. John takes a deep breath in preparation, and barely has to open his mouth before Sherlock’s looks up at him. His eyes narrow.

“What’s the matter?” he asks. John senses his concern. He badly wants to sense nothing of Sherlock’s emotions because he knows they will soon turn to distrust, perhaps fear, disappointment. But this won’t work if John can’t demonstrate what he can do, and for that, he can’t block out Sherlock.

“It’s just--Are you--Right, um--Can we talk? Over here?” Good start, Watson. Great.

He pulls a chair out, sits. He stares just to the left of Sherlock’s face as Sherlock sits across from him where his tea has been placed. John lifts up his own tea, takes a nervous sip. Sherlock ignores his. John can feel Sherlock’s eyes on his face. He’s radiating concern and confusion, a bit of curiosity. (That’s one thing, really, that John should have expected--with greater closeness to a person comes great ability to read their mind. Still, Sherlock’s still a relief compared to other people in that area because he’s so often quiet and focused on his work or other endeavours, even if those times are punctuated with an almost manic energy.)

“I’m not really sure how to say this, because I’ve only ever told my mother and I was young then,” John says to the wall. His hands clench around the mug. “You might not believe me, but that’s all right. You just need to know. I can prove it, if you want, but I need your permission for that.”

“John?” is Sherlock’s only reply. It’s his “I don’t understand what is going on so please explain” tone of voice. Something else has been added to his emotions. John takes a very brief moment to parse it out, and realizes it’s worry. Sherlock is worried.

John’s heart is pounding. They are both silent, Sherlock watching him still.

John opens and closes his mouth more than once, failing to say the beginning of his planned sentences.

And then, suddenly, it’s out there: “I can read minds.”

And then he can’t say any more.

His throat closes up. His mind is whirring in one spot. He had words planned. He had more. He wasn’t supposed to sound so idiotic. What was he going to say? He can’t remember. He wasn’t going to just say it like that, though. He can’t look at Sherlock. His hands are shaking now, practically pushing the mug across the table. He lets go, moves his hands into his lap to try to hide it.

He can’t look at Sherlock. He wants to look at Sherlock. He can’t. He is so trapped in his own emotions and thoughts that none of Sherlock’s make it in. How is he reacting? John doesn’t know. The table, which he is now staring at in place of the wall, doesn’t tell him anything. Sherlock’s silence tells him little, but it can’t be good.

His chest is constricting, his body mistaking fear as the cause of his adrenaline. Well, maybe it is a bit. Regardless, he is finding it hard to breath. He can’t do this now. He hasn’t had a full-out panic attack in years, since that one time after Sherlock’s death. Why now?

He wants to stand up and leave but finds himself locked in place. He tries to slow his breathing and fails enormously, his panic spiking as he realizes he can’t control it this time.

He hears the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, and then Sherlock saying, “John. You need to breathe.”

He wants to laugh, a bit, say that that is the problem--he’s breathing too much.

“Look at me,” Sherlock snaps, and the command in his voice surprises John enough that he obeys. He has moved around the table so he’s at a right angle to John now. Sherlock doesn’t touch him, but John thinks he wants to.

And it helps, just to look at Sherlock finally. It helps that the predominant emotion on his face isn’t disgust or fear--it’s concern still. John still doesn’t have enough of a hold on his own thoughts to read Sherlock’s emotions, so he’s relying entirely on the normal sense of sight to judge, but he doesn’t think he’s wrong. He really hopes he isn’t.

Eventually, he evens his breathing out.

That did not go at all according to plan.

 

 

Mary’s betrayal stings the most. He can forgive his mother her suicide, Harry her drinking, Sherlock his lies. They all had their reasons. Mary, though, was pure selfishness and cruelty.

She had helped. She accepted John calmly when he was broken and flailing after Sherlock’s (supposed) death. She had offered herself up, initiated the relationship. She had comforted him. Her emotions were more often than not calm--not always content, though, and sometimes there was a barb of derision toward John that he tried to ignore.

Once, when they tried to reconcile, he broke down and tried to read her thoughts. He hated himself for it. He didn’t discover anything useful, anyway, except more lies piled on lies. He didn’t delve in far. He dreads the day she returns in his life, because he knows she won’t just stay away.

He left the next day and returned to Baker Street.

 

 

That day at the restaurant when Sherlock walked in and knocked John’s whole world off kilter again, he accidentally read further than Sherlock’s emotions. He was confused and trying to verify whether Sherlock was actually Sherlock.

What he saw there scared him a bit. A well of uncertainty, nervousness, and memories of the past few years that, even without John attempting to figure out the details, told him all he needed to know to forgive him.

He was still angry, though. That didn’t end just because he understood in a moment what Sherlock himself wouldn’t explain fully until much later.

 

 

“Don’t look away,” Sherlock says. His hands hold John’s head in place now. They’re gentle but sure. His voice sounds harsh but John doesn’t know with what emotion. His mind is still too inward-facing.

He hears, though. His eyes snap back to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s eyes travel over John’s face. He seems to be searching for something.

“You’re not lying,” he finally says.

John shakes his head. The motion travels down Sherlock’s arms. “No, not lying.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Tell me more.”

So John does.

 

 

“You said you could prove it but you needed my permission,” Sherlock says after. They are still at the kitchen table. A line of mugs separates them because Sherlock got up to make tea and didn’t reuse the old ones.

John hadn’t brought the topic up again because it wasn’t something he wanted to do unless necessary. He doesn’t know if Sherlock trusts him anymore. He might think John’s already done it. He might not actually believe John.

Instead of voicing this, he just agrees.

“Do it,” Sherlock commands. Because he is commanding. It would be better if John couldn’t feel the nervousness behind the words.

“You have to be completely sure,” John answers. “I can only be so selective. I might find out things you don’t want me to.”

Sherlock doesn’t waver. “I need more proof, John.”

John nods, because he knew it would come to this. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t just believe John’s word. It would hurt if it wasn’t so understandable. It’s not often that anyone is faced with something so against what the world tells them is true. “Right. If you say so. We’ll do it carefully. Ask me questions. Ones you know I wouldn’t know the answer to.”

There’s a pause as Sherlock comes up with what he wants to ask. John carefully holds his mind separate so that he doesn’t get the answers ahead of time. He has to let Sherlock ask what he wants to ask first.

Sherlock folds his hands in front of him on the table. John can feel him hesitate, but then he says, “Why did I hate school?”

John, if he weren’t trying to read Sherlock’s mind, would immediately want to answer that it was because Sherlock was bored. But that’s not how this is supposed to work, so he concentrates instead on Sherlock’s mind.

He has to stop, momentarily, to marvel. It’s like walking through an elaborate house. He wonders if this is how it always is for Sherlock. John hasn’t done this for a long time, but most people’s minds are like small lakes of memories, uncertain blobs of mess that he has to weed through. Not so with Sherlock. He knew that already, but it’s different, being there, having it all in front of him.

It makes it seem like it takes John longer to do this than it really does. He has to re-collect himself before he can put all the pieces together.

“You were lonely. The other kids and the teachers didn’t understand you,” he finally answers.

Now Sherlock is avoiding John’s eyes, looking at his own hands. He forges ahead, though. “What’s Butter?”

John frowns. No, he can’t just be asking about the thing you spread on toast.

“A cat. He’s your parents’ pet but he mostly stays outside and he doesn’t like strangers, so that’s why I never saw him,” John figures out. He adds, after a beat, “Your mom calls him Claudius because she doesn’t like the name Butter. Your dad named him. Mycroft calls him Claude, when he has to. You call him Butter like your dad. Your family should stick to one name. That must be confusing for the poor cat.” He doesn’t mention all the other associations that he can’t avoid noticing, other family pets and small (but loving) squabbles between Sherlock’s parents.

A small smile flits across Sherlock’s face before disappearing when he asks his next question.

“When did I first meet Donovan?”

“Two months after meeting Lestrade. You don’t seem to have attached dates to it. It was spring six years ago, though.”

“What was the name of the first place Mycroft sent me?”

He doesn’t have to elaborate for what. “I don’t know the name. You never bothered finding it out. You refer to it by the name of a nurse there, Abigail Smith.” John knows that was somewhat of a trick question. If he had known before, Mycroft or whoever else would have told him the actual name of the clinic.

“What was the first violin piece I heard in concert?”

“Shostakovich. A violin concerto--one?” Music naming confuses John. He can find the information but can’t make it make sense without the knowledge. “You both hated it and loved it. You liked the experience. You thought the soloist was overly confident.”

Sherlock hesitates on the next one.

“You’re going to ask about Victor Trevor next,” John supplies, after a moment. That will help in its own right even though he didn’t mean to do it. Sherlock seems to have hit a block barely into the interrogation. He needs more evidence than what he’s received, though, because most of what he has asked John could have figured out from other sources.

Sherlock freezes, somehow, despite not having been moving much.

“He was your friend.” More. John doesn’t push that. John continues after giving Sherlock a chance to interject, “He got tired of you, you think, and left. I doubt that was it. But you met at uni--he had a pet. A dog?” There’s a small section about that dog in the larger area dedicated to Victor Trevor. “You liked the dog. You liked him, too.”

John wants to reach out and touch Sherlock. He wants to hold him. He wants to stop the whirring of anxiety that is starting to creep into Sherlock’s mind.

He accidentally follows the wrong association in the next moment, which leads to a revelation that stops him in his tracks.

“I’m not going to just leave you, Sherlock. I won’t get tired of you. There’s nothing to get tired of.”

There’s no response from Sherlock. He’s unmoving, still looking at his hands.

John’s head is starting to pound from wandering through Sherlock’s mind. He retreats, even if he’s only allowed to for a moment.

“I know you can’t trust me now, though,” John adds finally. Sherlock looks up at that, his emotions so muddled that John can’t separate anything out without thinking about it. “You can’t know that I haven’t read your mind before, that I won’t again. If you want me to go, though, I will.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He remains silent, though.

They are both silent again, in fact. Wariness rolls off Sherlock, but John can’t identify the source. He supposes it is him.

“Don’t leave,” Sherlock says finally. It’s quiet. He’s looking at his hands again. John wants desperately to fix things, even though the situation is all of his own making.

 

 

One month after John returned to Baker Street (again), he kissed Sherlock (again--he pushed those thoughts aside and didn’t think about the past before Sherlock’s “death”).

It was not how he expected it to happen (because, by that time, he expected it to happen. It was just a matter of when) but that was fine. It was a normal day. It had been quiet and domestic. John had even cooked breakfast, although they resorted to eating out later.

It was easy, actually. They were passing opposite ways through the kitchen door when suddenly they weren’t anymore and John had pulled Sherlock down so that their mouths met. Just like that, on a normal day, lips finally met lips, and John’s mind was suddenly but gloriously blank.

It was slow, at first, hesitant. And then when John realized he wasn’t going to be pushed away, and Sherlock seemed to realize the same, it got abruptly more heated. Sherlock pushed John gradually backwards until he hit the kitchen table. The equipment rattled and a precariously balanced dish fell to the floor, shattering.

“Shit. Sorry, ” John said, moving away to look at the glass on the floor.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said into John’s hair. “I was done with it anyway.” He switched sides, his lips moving down to John’s neck in surprisingly soft kisses.

“Right. Bedroom, before we break more things,” he said. His brief period of focus was ruined when Sherlock’s emotions started to filter back in. Arousal was the prominent feature, and John nearly groaned into Sherlock’s mouth when he tugged him back up to into a kiss.

John learned long ago that his ability to read minds didn’t help much in bed. He could never focus enough to use it to his advantage. The most he could do is tell whether someone was enjoying something or not. But when they practically fell onto the bed, that was enough. Sherlock was undoubtedly pleased, and all John was doing was kissing him and trying to get his shirt off.

“You’ve too many buttons,” John complained, pulling back the best he could so that he could see what he was doing.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sherlock replied. He sat up so that John would have better access to the bottom few buttons, and shifted so he was straddling John’s hips, his own hands sliding under John’s shirts to push them up.

John was forced to sit up slightly and stop unbuttoning to let Sherlock pull off his jumper and vest. Sherlock rocked his hips forward after he had done so, making John groan, his head falling back against the blankets again.

“Forget the buttons. Get back down here,” John said, his hands moving around Sherlock’s waist under his (mostly, but not quite unbuttoned) shirt to pull him down. He caught Sherlock’s smirk as he did so.

Somehow, Sherlock’s shirt eventually came off. Somehow, so did their trousers and socks (no graceful way to do that) and underwear. Somehow, John found his hand trapped between their bodies, wrapped around both of them as best he could as Sherlock rocked above him and breathed against his shoulder. Somehow, afterward, there was no awkwardness.

They talked, a bit, about innocuous things. John told a couple of stories about his time in the army. (Sherlock listened avidly.) Sherlock talked about the time Mycroft saved him from an angry cat. (John pretended not to notice the subtle fondness and admiration that creeped into Sherlock’s voice and mind when he spoke about his childhood with Mycroft.) They were both naked still, cleaned up only by John’s vest, but had positioned themselves properly on the bed. John had pulled the blankets over them when Sherlock seemed to be getting cold.

Sherlock started to fall asleep before John, somewhat surprisingly. John was thinking about how he would have to tell Sherlock eventually, if this continued. He never told Mary. He doesn’t know why. It always seemed like a bad idea, or the inopportune moment. But he’d have to tell Sherlock because this was different. This mattered in a way it never had with Mary.

“John?” Sherlock quietly asked.

“Hmm?” John’s response was just as quiet, fearful of breaking the peace.

A brief pause, then: “You’ll stay?”

John smiled, even though Sherlock couldn’t see it from where he had buried his head into the blankets against John’s shoulder. He turned on his side and threaded his fingers through what he could see of Sherlock’s hair, pulling Sherlock in closer before he answered, “Of course.”

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t say much after he tells John not to leave. John eventually gives in and goes to bed. His own bedroom is no longer acceptable for sleeping (experiment gone awry, Sherlock said, but John strongly suspects it was on purpose) so he is forced to retreat to Sherlock’s room, which he’s been sleeping in for months now and is really both of theirs.

His head hurts from wandering through Sherlock’s mind. It’s not as bad as it could be, but he hasn’t deliberately mind read in so long that he isn’t used to the strain. He still feels off-kilter from the panic attack as well. The combination of the two makes him want to burrow into the blankets and surround himself with Sherlock’s scent. Instead he carefully aligns himself against the edge of the mattress, leaving plenty of room in case Sherlock wants to sleep in the bed. John suspects he won’t. Why wold he want to sleep beside John anymore?

What a change he has wrought since this morning. Sherlock was happy in a way John hadn’t seen until the last couple of weeks and John had ruined it with one short sentence. He had had to, though, now or sometime. It is better that it was now before either of them grew overly attached. (He ignores that both of them are already very attached.)

He eventually falls into an exhausted sleep. He’s jerked awake when he feels Sherlock slide into the blankets behind him. He pulls in close to John’s back, not touching him except when his fingers graze against John’s shirt when he adjusts the blankets.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is a whisper. He can likely tell John woke up, but he is quiet anyway. His mind is oddly quiet as well, as if he’s tucked all of his emotions away in some corner for the time being.

“Yes?” he responds at a slightly louder level. He doesn’t turn around despite wanting to. He instead speaks into the air in front of him.

“You said you hadn’t told anyone but your mother. Why not?”

“I don’t want to be a research topic. They would hate me for it. They wouldn’t believe me. Take your pick.” He doesn’t want to sound bitter but he knows he does. He doesn’t add “It would make them stop trusting me” because he told Sherlock despite that reason.

Sherlock takes a moment to think about that. He shifts slightly, his toes settling against John’s heel. They’re cold, as always. He’s changed at some point, although John didn’t hear him come into the room to do so. Maybe Sherlock was so quiet that John didn’t wake up. He can do that, sometimes, be careful and quiet.

“Why did you tell me?” he asks, choosing not to comment on John’s answer.

“I don’t know,” John answers truthfully. “It felt like something that I should do.”

He turns around finally because Sherlock’s fingers are now idly scraping at John’s back as if he wants to clutch at it. John doubts he even realizes he’s doing it. It leaves them very close together, face-to-face. John doesn’t know where to put his arms because he isn’t sure if his touch would be welcome. He finally settles one beneath his head and the other close to his chest between them.

“How can you trust me with that information?” Sherlock asks. His emotions are still dampened but John can feel a small amount of worry and incredulity finally sneaking through. It’s a relief, almost, to feel something from Sherlock. His emotions have always been much quieter, but they’ve always been there. It’s eery to not feel them, and it reminds him too much of how Moriarty felt that night at the pool.

“You’re the only one I trust with it,” John says. It doesn’t answer Sherlock’s question but it’s the best he has. He doesn’t know, really, the actual answer. He just trusts Sherlock.

Sherlock shakes his head slightly against the pillow. “I’m the wrong person,” he says. He sounds a bit scared and John can’t place why. Is it of him? He hopes not, but dreads the answer.

“No, you aren’t,” John replies. He has to clench his hand to resist reaching out the short distance to Sherlock. “You’re the right one--the only one,” he repeats.

“But _why me_?” Sherlock insists. This is not how John expected the aftermath of his reveal to go at all. He doesn’t know how to handle it and cannot understand why Sherlock is so stuck on what seems to be a relatively minor point compared to the fact that John could find out every bit of information in his head.

“Because I love you, you idiot. You should know that by now.” Calling Sherlock names probably isn’t the best tactic, but it feels right and familiar.

Sherlock responds how he did the last time John said those words: with surprise and disbelief. He can’t see most of Sherlock’s face in the darkness of the room, but he can feel the emotions. He’s avoided saying it since because it seems to unsettle Sherlock so much. John was hurt, the first time. This time he accepts it.

John sighs. His head still hurts and he wants to ask Sherlock to continue this conversation another time but he knows that there won’t be another time. There’s only one night-after-revealing-you-can-read-minds.

He finally unfurls and risks pulling Sherlock in close in a position that is familiar. Sherlock doesn’t resist, to John’s great relief. In fact, he pushes in closer to John, curling himself down slightly so that his face is against John’s chest.

“I’m not leaving unless you want me to. You’re stuck with me. And I really actually love you, even if you don’t believe me,” John says. It’s a bit sad, really, that Sherlock doesn’t believe it and there is still that faint feeling of disbelief even now.

“Did you read my thoughts to know that’s what I was thinking about?” Sherlock hesitantly asks. His voice is muffled by John’s shirt. It’s the admittance that he does think that over anything else that makes him hesitate, John thinks.

“No. I just know you.” It’s not really a lie, but he adds, “I can just tell you don’t believe me. Your emotions are there, Sherlock, they’re just quiet. I can’t turn off sensing them for long but I will if you want.” He doesn’t mention that it would be a strain. If Sherlock wants it, he will learn how to do it.

There’s a short period of silence again, and then, “No. It’s fine.”

They are quiet for a period of time, neither sleeping. It gives them time to think, though, and unfortunately John’s thoughts are not content ones.

“Sherlock?” he eventually ventures.

The response is an inquiring sound.

“Do you still trust me?” He blurts out. He has to know. It’s niggling at mind to the point of distraction. If Sherlock doesn’t trust him, this will all fall apart. He knows that. He wouldn’t know how to gain his trust back without getting rid of the very thing he has revealed, and he isn’t capable of doing that.

“Yes,” is the straightforward answer, as if it’s a stupid question.

“Are you sure? You should think about it more. I shouldn’t have asked. Sorry.”

Sherlock pulls John back toward him. He hadn’t even realized he was pulling away. It ends with their faces level again, so close together that John can feel Sherlock’s breath on his face.

“Stop it. Don’t be an idiot. You’re still you. I believe you,” Sherlock snaps at him, although some of the force behind the words is lost by the kiss Sherlock presses to the left of John’s nose on his cheekbone. John supposes it’s because that is presently the most easily accessible place for a kiss. It helps a bit, though.

“Now be quiet. Go to sleep,” Sherlock adds. “I have to think and you’re distracting.”

John obeys, expecting to feel Sherlock leaving eventually. He doesn’t pull away, though. He adjusts enough to be more comfortable while still being pushed against John’s front. He even moves John’s arm so it won’t fall asleep.

John smiles, a bit, although he’s still feeling uncertain and wary. He does eventually fall asleep though, Sherlock wide awake against him.

 

 

The next morning, they have slow sex. John’s not sure why it’s so careful, but he supposes it’s a source of comfort after the turmoil of the previous evening. Considering how he hadn’t allowed himself to think past the possible immediate aftermath of his reveal, it’s particularly wonderful.

When he emerges from sleep, Sherlock is awake. John can’t tell whether he slept at all but he thinks he might have a bit. Regardless, Sherlock senses immediately that John has woken up. John has shifted onto his back in his sleep, as he usually does. Sherlock seems to take that as permission to smother, as he also usually does. He takes a moment to pull John’s shirt off and then rolls until he’s half on top of him, skin to skin. Similar to how he got changed the previous night without John noticing, he has also somehow shed all of his clothes without waking John up. It’s a welcome surprise.

They don’t say anything. Sherlock’s head rests against John’s clavicle, his ear to his chest. His finger taps against John’s stomach to his heartbeat. There is no hesitancy, just contentment. Apparently Sherlock decided something overnight, and now there is very little uncertainty in him. It’s a huge relief, and John relaxes further.

Sherlock eventually turns his head enough to mouth along John’s chest. He remains still, allows him to explore. Sometimes that is what Sherlock needs. It seems to calm him, although at the moment he doesn’t seem overly agitated. It’s possibly a comfort, though.

He skirts around John’s scars because he knows by now that paying much attention to them puts John on edge.

John ignores his emerging hardness. Sherlock’s is pushing up against his leg, but he also seems content enough to ignore it. Instead, he continues his journey over John’s chest. He can’t figure out the pattern, although there must be one. He lets his mind drift a bit, only really paying attention to Sherlock’s mouth on his skin.

There’s a pause, so to speak, in Sherlock’s exploration when his mouth meets John. They’re both happy to simply kiss for awhile, before Sherlock pulls away again and returns to moving down John’s body.

They’re both uncharacteristically quiet. Sherlock’s emotions are dampened again, and then do not register at all once he finally takes John into his mouth and his mind goes beautifully blank. He wonders, sometimes, if it’s this way for Sherlock as well. His mind is equally overactive, just in a different manner. He files that away to ask at another time when it’s more appropriate and when Sherlock’s tongue isn’t doing things that force John to break the quiet with a cut-off moan. He fights his own hips, trying to keep them down. Finally Sherlock clamps an arm across his stomach to help hold him in place.

Sherlock’s free hand has joined his mouth and soon it’s too much. John comes with a gasp, his breath stuttering beforehand.

He takes a brief moment to catch his breath, and then tugs Sherlock upwards. His hand is on his own erection, and John swats it away in an uncoordinated manner. “Stop, stop it, let me, God, you’re lovely, I’m too lucky, I love you, come here,” he babbles into Sherlock’s mouth as it meets his.

Sherlock’s answering smile is brilliant, a curve against John’s lips that momentarily makes it difficult to kiss properly but is very welcome nevertheless. John’s hand finally stops skittering helplessly against Sherlock’s back and hips and finds its way to his penis.

It doesn’t take long before Sherlock is no longer kissing and instead simply resting his forehead against John’s, his back an upward curve to accommodate for the height difference. He’s gasping, and then he says John’s name, broken and somewhat desperate and comes into John’s hand.

He collapses onto John, who has long since given up on arguing against any potential stickiness. It doesn’t matter; they’ll shower later.

His face pushes into the curve between John’s neck and shoulder, kisses it sloppily and settles in. He’s heavy but it’s fine. John doesn’t need to take deep breaths anyway. He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back, pulls him in closer, if possible.

“I trust you,” Sherlock says into John’s shoulder. He likes talking into John’s skin, John has realized. John’s heartbeat spikes a bit at the words, and he knows Sherlock can probably feel it. But it’s a good spike, a hopeful one. “I love you,” Sherlock adds.

John doesn’t comment that it’s the first time he’s said that. He doesn’t need the words because he has known for a long time that it’s true. But it matters anyway, that Sherlock wants John to know for sure. John feels happy. Sherlock is too, no wariness or hesitation underneath. If possible, John relaxes even further at that. It seems a single night can do wonders, more than John had ever hoped.

“I love you, too,” he answers. “And thank you.”

Sherlock snorts an undignified laugh. It makes John smile. “You’re welcome” is the answer with only a small undertone of sarcasm. It’s not enough to stop John from understanding that Sherlock knows, despite his laughter, how important his words were to John.

“Prat.”

John can feel Sherlock’s answering grin. “Your prat. And you can be my idiot.”

John’s laughter is a huff of air. “You’re also an idiot sometimes.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums against his skin. A brief pause, and then he adds, “Don’t keep secrets from me anymore. It’s only fair if you can figure out mine.”

“I won’t figure out yours unless you want me to,” John feels the need to argue, although it’s a fond argument. “But all right.”

Sherlock nods slightly, as best he can with his position. “Good.”

John smiles again. He wonders if he has stopped smiling. “Now get off me,” he says reluctantly. “I can feel Mrs. Hudson about to come up the stairs.” Her timing is both impeccable (she didn’t interrupt anything) and annoying (she is interrupting this).

Sherlock makes a whining sound that is more endearing than it should be, but he rolls to the side. John slides out of the bed, and then backtracks to lean over and kiss Sherlock again.

“Sleep a bit,” John says. “I can tell you want to. I’ll deal with Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock nods, reaches up and pulls John down again briefly before letting him go.

John leaves for a quick shower before dealing with Mrs. Hudson, who is now putting away the leftover tea from last night. She’s curious, John can tell, probably because they were uncharacteristically quiet the night before. He’ll have to come up with a reason.

Before he goes out, though, he wanders back into the bedroom for some clean clothes to match his now clean skin. Sherlock’s asleep half under, half tangled in the blankets. He wakes up a bit and protests slightly when John manipulates him underneath, grabbing onto John’s hand and trying to pull him down.

“Sorry. Go back to sleep,” John says quietly. “I still have to talk to Mrs. Hudson.”

“Still trust you,” Sherlock murmurs. John wonders if it will become habit to say that. He hopes so. He finds it oddly tethering, and each time it eases a bit of his worry.

“Good. Thank you. Now sleep.”

He allows himself a moment to kiss the half-asleep Sherlock, whose response is slow and barely there before John pulls away again.

Then he exits the room to face the rest of the world, which, at that moment, is Mrs. Hudson’s knowing smile and pleased emotion.

“All right then, you boys?” she asks. She studies John’s face. Looking for what, he doesn’t know. “I’ve brought up some cake Mrs. Turner dropped off.”

“Yes, thanks,” John answers, and it’s true. It’s much more than he had hoped for, but they're fine, it’s true, and now they even have cake.


End file.
